The Merry Vineyard

red grape vines
bleaching over sunrise
its fingerlike leaves popping
with the sound of butterfly wings
red grapes glow hastily
a beauty’s ally

we dream of curling twigs on the vines
green canopy of leaves shading the land
fresh fruit bunches spurt under rain shower
glimpsed, blinked, sparkled
overflowing lights

how sweet,
the smell of crushed grapes
inside mouth
under the feet
dancing merrily
we’ll never get old under the vines
even if we grow old anyway,
we’ll get old happily

Poetry Prairie – 2015